


River

by kjack89



Series: Twelve Days of Christmas Giveaway Fics [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Christmas, M/M, Pining, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let Grantaire draw what conclusions he would, so long as the result was the same.</p><p>And the result must be the same."</p><p>At Christmas time, Enjolras regrets and pines for what he's given up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [satb31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/gifts).



> Usual disclaimer: I don't own anything. Nothing whatsoever. I have no possessions. I am free from all that binds us to this earth. How am I typing this, then? Well, the world may never know.

The wind howled outside the Musain, and almost involuntarily, Enjolras shivered, glancing outside the window at the Paris streets beyond. The door to the backroom opened and Combeferre let himself in. “Has it yet begun to snow?” Enjolras asked in lieu of greeting, the candle spluttering in the draft of air that followed Combeferre.

“No, and it does not seem likely to start this evening,” Combeferre told him, moving to warm his hands in front of the coals that burned in the small fireplace. He glanced over his shoulder at Enjolras. “Dare I ask what brings you here on a night such as this, and myself by extension?”

Enjolras frowned and rearranged the papers in front of him. “What else but the cause of our brothers and sisters on the streets in weather such as this? While we’ve a fire to warm ourselves, men are starving and ill and our leaders—” he all but spat the word “—do nothing, hiding away in their halls while their people die.”

Combeferre sat down across from him, his expression mild as he loosened his cravat. “True though this may be, it is no more true on this night than any other. So tell me truthfully, why are you here by yourself rather than out with our friends, making merriment during this holiday season?”

Scowling, Enjolras shook his head. “What merriment is there to be had at the expense of our fellows?” he snapped, though without much heat. “Should I be as Grantaire and drink until I no longer recall the plight of others? Laugh and dance and pretend I do not see those dying in the streets?”

Combeferre held up his hand in a placating gesture. “Peace, my friend,” he said quietly. “I do not question your resolve, nor suggest that you should do anything other than what you wish. Though I find it interesting that your mind leapt straight to Grantaire.”

“Why should it not?” Enjolras asked, his tone cautious. “If there was such a thing as a true opposite, he would be mine, would he not?”

Shrugging, Combeferre sat back in his chair. “If you wished to look at it that way, then yes, I suppose that statement would be accurate.” He examined Enjolras carefully. “I just thought that perhaps there was more between you and Grantaire, a reason, perhaps, for merriment.”

Though he did not state it as a question, the light lilt in his voice made it as such, and Enjolras could not help but flush slightly even as he shook his head, his voice turning cold. “I know not what you thought there was, but I assure you that you are mistaken.”

“Of course.” Combeferre’s tone was equally cool. “My mistake. I do beg your pardon.”

Enjolras blinked and looked down, shaking his head. “No, my friend, it is I who must beg yours. I do not mean to be sharp with you, and I know that we do not keep secrets from each other.”

Combeferre shrugged again. “What secrets you must keep I am sure are for your own peace of mind, and I do not begrudge you that. I hope only that you do not burden yourself unnecessarily, not when you can share with me if you need.”

Nodding, Enjolras kept his gaze firmly trained on the table, unsure how to even begin to explain what secrets he had harbored, especially secrets regarding Grantaire, their resident cynic, a man who frustrated Enjolras to no end, but in whom Enjolras had found an unlikely source of inspiration, the ultimate goal to which he must aspire.

And Grantaire…

Well, Enjolras would not pretend to be able to make sense of Grantaire, of what Grantaire thought and felt towards him. Certainly he knew that Grantaire held him in high regard, which while on the one hand, Enjolras found flattering, he could never understand why a man such as Grantaire, who cared about little and believed in even less, would choose one such as himself as the object for his…

Enjolras hesitated to call it affections, but what other term could encapsulate the myriad things between the two men?

If Grantaire’s feelings toward Enjolras made little sense, Enjolras’s made even less, a confusing snarl of regret, desire, and grudging respect. Above all, though, was the absolute and irrefutable knowledge that there was nothing to be done about the matter.

Grantaire had tried, once, not too long past, to finally act on the tension or desire or whatever one wished to term what lingered between them. It had been a simple moment, one that Enjolras regretted as much for its occurrence as for its brevity.

After a meeting that had stretched late into the night, Enjolras had excused himself for a breath of air in the street outside the Musain, his blood singing with the desire to do more and the frustration that he was fettered against doing as such. To his surprise, Grantaire had followed him out, a look of concern on his face as he touched Enjolras’s arm gently. “Enjolras.”

“What, Grantaire?” Enjolras had all but snapped, his patience worn rather thing over the course of the evening, thin enough to not bother making pleasantries.

Grantaire had flinched, hurt clear in his expression for a brief moment until he smoothed it into something blank. “Nothing. I merely sought to see if you were all right. You had looked peaked inside, and I…well, I worried.” He stepped away, his eyes dark. “I see now that I was mistaken.”

He had begun to walk away, but Enjolras caught his arm. “No, Grantaire, I—”

Grantaire had turned back, something unreadable on his face as they stared at each other for a long moment. Then, moving faster than Enjolras could follow, Grantaire closed the space between them to kiss him, a gentle, reverent kiss.

For a long moment, they stayed that way, then Enjolras sighed and murmured, his lips moving against Grantaire’s, “Grantaire—”

The single word was enough to make Grantaire pull back, panic flitting across his face almost faster than Enjolras could track it. “I am sorry,” Grantaire gasped, his eyes wide, and with that, he had fled, ignoring Enjolras as he shouted after him.

They had not discussed anything since then; in Enjolras’s opinion, there was nothing to discuss. Let Grantaire draw what conclusions he would, so long as the result was the same.

And the result must be the same.

For Enjolras to do anything other than discourage Grantaire absolutely, for Enjolras to give any illusion of hope when there was none…it was unconscionable.

Enjolras blinked and found Combeferre watching him closely, his brow furrowed slightly. “Enjolras?” he said, softly, with the tone of one who had said it many times before. “Are you with me, friend?”

“I am,” Enjolras said quickly, too quickly, a blush rising in his cheeks. “I apologize. I was…distracted.”

Combeferre nodded, still looking at him carefully. “If you are distracted, perhaps the best thing for you is to address the root of the distraction.” He sat back in his chair, his expression neutral. “It is, after all, the holidays, and there is little to be done at this time of year. Your efforts may be better served preparing yourself for the fight to come were your mind clear.”

Enjolras nodded slowly, mulling Combeferre’s words in his mind, and managed a small smile. “You merely wish to return to your chambers and the fire you can stoke for yourself there.”

“I do not deny that my motivations are not entirely altruistic,” Combeferre said easily, returning Enjolras’s smile. “That being said, if you find my reasoning flawed, speak now, and if not…”

He trailed off, and Enjolras’s smile grew into a real one. “My friend, I have learned long ago not to question your logic, for you would run me in circles were I ever to.” He stood, re-knotting his cravat around his neck. “I will tend to that which distracts me, and we shall reconvene after the holiday.”

Combeferre stood as well, pulling his coat back on. “In that case, Merry Christmas to you, Enjolras.”

“And to you, Combeferre.” They grasped hands for a brief moment, then Combeferre nodded and left. Enjolras took only a moment longer to gather his resolve before following out, his feet taking him in a direction far from his own living quarters.

Were he to think it over, he would not have been able to pinpoint how, precisely, he knew where to go. Perhaps Joly was on to something with magnetism in the body, and he was drawn to his opposite; more likely, he had picked up on little details without meaning to, and his feet knew more than his conscious did.

Whatever the case may be, he soon found himself outside a warm, well-lit wine shop across Paris, looking through the frosted window at Grantaire, who was smiling and laughing, a bottle of wine clenched loosely as he gestured emphatically at whatever he was saying. Enjolras could not help but stare, something close to longing curling in his gut.

For just a moment, staring through the window at a scene to which he was not privy, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like, to be inside, wrapped in Grantaire’s arms, laughing and carefree. He imagined sweet kisses exchanged like the accidental one they had shared, the one he had never intended but treasured more than words could describe, gentle touches, even just the lingering glances that he had tried to avoid.

It would be easy, the easiest thing he had ever wanted to do. What were the plights of the people of Paris when compared to the warmth and light herein contained? It would take nothing to allow it of himself, to give in, to join Grantaire inside. He would welcome him, that light that he wore only in Enjolras’s presence glowing in his cheeks, his embrace ready and open. And Enjolras would allow himself that which he had always denied, and it would be warm, and he would be happy.

But then he shook his head, and turned away, his eyes hardening. It was not for his own sake that he kept chaste, not for his own discipline that he exercised restraint. There were nobler causes than that of one man, and it was for those that Enjolras had long since pledged himself, and he would not lose that even for the sake of a dark-haired libertine with wicked, tempting lips. Whatever happiness he would find there would be fleeting in light of every horror he fought to eradicate.

So he began the long walk back through the streets of Paris, ready as always to deny himself this small pleasure, when the door to the shop behind him banged open, and Grantaire called breathlessly, “Enjolras, wait!”

Enjolras turned, surprised to see Grantaire running after him, surprised and a little mortified that Grantaire had seen him in the window. Grantaire slowed to a stop a few feet from where Enjolras stood, staring impassively at him. “Did you…did you wish to join us?” Grantaire asked, still sounding as though he could not catch his breath. “A drink amongst friends would not be remiss, I think, at this late hour and during this holiday season.”

Swallowing hard, Enjolras shook his head slowly, the temptation in the offer plain, but as unattainable as ever. “I should not,” he told Grantaire, his voice low. “Work does not cease just because of the date, after all. Though…” He paused, searching for the proper words, and settled on stating, “I appreciate the invitation. Have a good night.”

He turned to go, but Grantaire grabbed his arm, holding him in place, and after a brief moment of staring at each other, Grantaire kissed Enjolras’s cheek quickly. “Merry Christmas.”

Then he walked away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the kiss burning warmly on his cheek. He stared at Grantaire’s retreating back and raised a hand to touch his cheek where Grantaire’s lips had brushed against his skin. “Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice pitched low, so low that surely Grantaire could not hear him.

But Grantaire turned, just slightly, his mouth lifting in a small smile as he shouldered his way back into the shop, raising one hand in a wave to Enjolras as he did. And Enjolras turned, squaring his shoulders, his breath fogging in the cold air, feeling inexplicably warm as he walked away.


End file.
